By Cathy Caudill
Revelation
I was almost startled. After two years in High Point I had begun to think of the city as a land of concrete, red brick and shrubs. I seldom ventured off of my clean college campus, as a layer of dingy grime seemed to have lightly settled upon the rest of the city. That this pocket of natural beauty existed a mere five minutes east of my school came as something of a shock.
As my car shot across the bridge that straddled the lake, I felt like I had just taken my first breath after a lengthy submersion. Although the dead winter didn’t heighten its aesthetic appeal, it had the sophisticated beauty of a black-and-white photograph. The lake was opaque and still—above it, a crown of trees stood naked and shivering under the ashen sky.
Throughout the year, I crossed the lake in all seasons, at all times of day, in all kinds of weather. As I shot across the bridge I would turn my head to gaze at the lake—but before I could finish sighing of its loveliness I was forced to tear my eyes away, lest my car should drift into the oncoming traffic or off the bridge itself.
In spring I saw it blush with color as rosy petals burst forth from the fingertips of many dogwoods.
On the first day of warmth fishermen emerged from their respective dens, spotting the lake in boats that looked like over-sized tin trays with motors.
During vicious summer storms, the lake churned and mirrored the flashing intensity of the heavens above. In autumn the maple leaves blazed like fire upon water.
Every day, reeds stretched from below the glassy surface like the glistening arms of fabled nymphs, gesturing for me draw nearer—to step out of my car and approach the shore. I wanted to yield to them—to trek through the rugged undergrowth of the surrounding woods, the thorny briars tearing at my knees as I kicked my way to its unblemished shore—but I was always in a hurry to get from point A to point B and never bothered to stop.
But since there is a fluke spell of warm November weather and a brief interlude in my studies, I have decided that it is time to venture to the lake.
Down to the Lake
The vision I had of hacking through the thicket of brambles dissipates as I learn that there is an access just around the bend of trees, right off of Greensboro Road in Jamestown. I also learn that there is a community park—it lures in the High Point locals on this day of sun. Children play on swing-sets; a flock of nuns in blue robes flutter along a path.
I bring along my friend Melissa—a local herself—who wants to serve as a sort of guide as I embark into this mysterious frontier. She reveals to me the history of the land—history that predates the construction of the dam and the lake itself.
She leads me to a single-roomed cabin that served as a meetinghouse to Quaker settlers in 1819. The land beside the lake was once a plantation belonging to the Mendenhall family. The meetinghouse was only used on days of inclement weather, as there was a larger meetinghouse for the community a mile away that they would otherwise go to.
I walk down the hill toward the lake—although it is not yet five, it already glistening in the setting sun. Melissa points to a brightly colored kiddy-train, hibernating in a tunnel behind a gate for the cold winter months. We hop along the train-track planks to keep our shoes out of the soft slick mud.
I watch the lake ripple and bubble—when I turn back a moment later, a blue heron erupts from below the surface. As I try to draw closer it spreads its wings and withdraws to the other side of the bend.
We stand in awe as we watch the hue of the land change from sunset-gold to dusky-blue. But when the sun finally dips below the tree line and night sets in, we are ushered out by an employee.
I am left with a mixed sensation of elation and regret—the latter because I have failed to visit this lake in my first three years of school, and I will soon be leaving the city of High Point for good. But spring is just around the bend, and this year I will be present for the lake’s rebirth.
Transcendentalism
It’s hardly a wonder that Thoreau went to Walden Pond “to live deliberately.” Water is, after all, a traditional place of rebirth and enlightenment—a place that liberates us from the dreariness of civilization. In an era long past, bodies of water were even ascribed deities. A person would be hard-pressed to find an old-world religion that does not place some sort of significance on water and emersion.
There is a calling. The significance of water is deeply embedded in our nature; something more deeply meaningful than “we need it to live”—water is somehow linked to the human spirit itself.
We pass meetinghouse on our way to the parking lot. It now seems to belong to this old world. I think back to a day when it was still used—as a family of early-American laborers sat quietly circled in the single room, straining their spirits to hear God speak over the patter of rain, or the gusts of wind, or the deafening quiet of the silent snow outside. I wonder if they hear him?
It’s hardly a wonder that Thoreau went to Walden Pond “to live deliberately.” Water is, after all, a traditional place of rebirth and enlightenment—a place that liberates us from the dreariness of civilization. In an era long past, bodies of water were even ascribed deities. A person would be hard-pressed to find an old-world religion that does not place some sort of significance on water and emersion.
There is a calling. The significance of water is deeply embedded in our nature; something more deeply meaningful than “we need it to live”—water is somehow linked to the human spirit itself.
We pass meetinghouse on our way to the parking lot. It now seems to belong to this old world. I think back to a day when it was still used—as a family of early-American laborers sat quietly circled in the single room, straining their spirits to hear God speak over the patter of rain, or the gusts of wind, or the deafening quiet of the silent snow outside. I wonder if they hear him?
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